The Book of the Dead by Elizabeth Daly

to find out. I suppose he really did die of leukemia.”
    Her eyes grew rounder.
    â€œThey took tests and blood samples here—I was careful to ask. Tomorrow,” said Gamadge, “I’ll find out whether leukemia can be faked or induced. As for some insurance racket, we don’t know whether Crenshaw was insured; but he wasn’t cremated, so perhaps insurance doesn’t come into it.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œSay that a man named Crenshaw insures his life in favor of a man named Pike. A collaborator is found who wants his heirs provided for; in this case, a collaborator who is dying of leukemia. The collaborator is buried under the name of Crenshaw, and the real Crenshaw and his accomplices—Billig would have to be one of them—split the insurance. But in such cases there is always, or nearly always, complete destruction of the body; often by cremation.”
    Idelia, her face a mask of incredulity, asked: “Why?”
    â€œBecause insurance companies are skeptical and cautious, and they employ trained investigators to protect them against that very type of fraud. My friend Schenck was an insurance investigator before he joined the F.B.I. If there’s the least cause for suspecting the parties, there’s an investigation; the body may be exhumed, and no insurance crooks risk that.”
    â€œMr. Gamadge,” said Idelia in a violent whisper, “you can just forget it. Mr. Crenshaw wouldn’t have cheated anybody out of money, not even an insurance company.”
    Gamadge said: “We can prove or disprove the theory ourselves.”
    â€œWe can?”
    â€œAnd we’re just in time. You wouldn’t mind a visit to Buckley’s funeral establishment? You won’t mind saying goodbye to your friend?”
    â€œI’d give anything to!”
    â€œThat’s the talk; I see that you were brought up in a stern and pious school, to look your last upon the dead.”
    â€œBut will they let me see him?”
    â€œThompson spoke as if they might. They may be very glad to see you, you know. Places like Buckley’s love an identification; they know all about the insurance racket.”
    â€œBut will they be open?”
    â€œPlaces like Buckley’s are open all night.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Little Ceremony
    T HE RECEPTIONIST SUPPLIED Gamadge with Buckley’s address, not far south and west of St. Damian’s. It was a big remodeled corner house, stately and not too sad, with a columned and pedimented white doorway. It had its own garage on the side street, and there was a florist’s conveniently located on its ground floor.
    Idelia stopped at the florist’s window. She said: “I’d like to get a few flowers.”
    â€œThey’re so damned expensive in this part of town, Idelia. Crenshaw wouldn’t have wanted you to spend money on him.”
    â€œThose double petunias don’t look expensive.”
    They weren’t, because while she inspected them Gamadge engaged the clerk’s eye, raised one finger, and displayed bills in his other hand. The clerk nodded, told her that the petunias would be one dollar, delivered them to her unwrapped, and then joined Gamadge in front of a floral masterpiece made of lilies and six feet high. Two more dollars changed hands.
    Gamadge and Idelia walked the few steps to Buckley’s vestibule, and looked through the open doors at a black-and-white hallway where an attendant in a morning coat paced thoughtfully.
    â€œJust as if they expected us,” said Idelia.
    â€œIn a sense they do. They gather all things mortal—”
    â€œâ€”With cold immortal hands,” finished Idelia. “Mr. Crenshaw liked that poem. He often said it to me.”
    â€œUpon my word, I’m beginning to think that you were right; Crenshaw may not have known at Stonehill that he was going to die, but even if he didn’t, the news can’t have been